


The Disaster Thottening

by PiggyDuke



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Satire, This is making fun of the xReader genre but I was asked to on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PiggyDuke/pseuds/PiggyDuke
Summary: The young reader finds herself trapped in a snare in the dangerous forests of Flotsam. A stranger appears. A stranger she has admired for so long from afar...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Disaster Thottening

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant as satire! A friend prompted me and I couldn't resist to drag her to hell and back. Originally posted on tumblr.
> 
> Please listen to this while reading https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BG6EtT-mReM

You stroll through the beautiful forst near Flotsam. You never liked that town and were happy to have grown up in Lobinden, the village nestled against the town’s walls. The people there were much less of the racists and crooks the snobby townspeople were. If you had to be honest you always had a fascination for elves, probably owing to the fact you are a quarter-elf. Or so you keep telling yourself though your mother insists it’s the boat builder still living with his mom.

A sharp pain rushes through your leg and the creaky jaws of a trap snap shut around your ankle. You scream out, but in your thoughtlessness you have wandered too far for any guards or herb collectors to hear. You look around, see a waterfall and the water pooling around it through the trees.

Oh no, this is Scoia’tael territory. Cedric had warned you time and time again that it’s best to just avoid it. Just like he avoided your advances all the time. Sobbing you crouch down, try to pry the metal jaws open, but to no avail. You pull and yank, but the trapping won’t budge. You sit down as best as possible without hurting your leg further. Should you scream? No, that would not be elven like.

Minutes of waiting turn into hours. The sun slowly recedes beyond the horizon and through the dense tree tops the night comes quicker than by the river.

Whump! Suddenly something lands behind you. You can barely stifle your scream. You don’t dare turn your head. Too many monster live here.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”, you hear a snarling voice mock behind you.

“I am y/n,” you try to courageously hold against.

“And what are you doing in my forest, y/n?”

“I lost my way and then-,” your voice breaks and tears well up in your eyes, “I stepped in this stupid trap.”

You feel the presence circle you - no doubt thanks to your Hen Ichaer - and suddenly stand eye to eye with the face that adorns so many wanted posters. There is no doubt about it. The bandana convering the scar on the right side of his face, adorned with a kestrel feather, the piercing stare. Iorveth, the probably most brutal and infamous Scoia’tael leader that walked the Northern Realms. You had begged Cedric time and time again to tell you all he knows about him, until you nearly had a very unfortunate accident where you would have fallen from his lookout platform. A cold smile encompasses his lips, showing where he is missing teeth owing to the blow that had left him blind on one eye. You knew all about him. Secretly you had stolen one of the wanted posters and kept it beneath your pillow so you knew his face better than that of your own mother. And, by Veyopatis, he was sexy.

“Now what should I do with you?”

“I am quarter-elf! I swear!”

He closes in on you and squats down, his face unreadable, his fingers part your hair and trace your ear. Sparks burn in your stomach. He touched you! And he is smelling so good, of pine needles and wolfs-bane in bloom.

He hums. That must mean he saw it! Finally, all your life you strived to be recognised for who you are and he of all people gave you the validation you had been seeking for so long! You feel ecstatic!

“Take me in, please, I could be your mole! Or even better, maybe I could talk to Loredo and then he will let you be. You could move to Lobinden, we even have enough room for another bed. Until that’s ready you could share mine, you know I always get those cold feet at night, and I could use a strong elf like you next to me,” you say flirtatiously, caressing his massive biceps (for an elf), formed by years of sword fighting, archery and swinging through the forests like that wolf-raised boy Moglian from the ballad, or at least you imagine him doing that.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”, he chuckles lowly.

“Oh yes!” You can barely stop yourself from squealing.

He leans forward, you feel his breath - smelling wonderfully of summer mint - playing on your hair.

“Close your eyes, I have a surprise for you.”

A suprise? Your stomach is doing somersaults. You wouldn’t have dared dream of that even in your wildest fantasies (and those were already pretty darn wild). Your hands are literally shaking and your teeth chattering from excitement, but you take a deep breath and oblige.

“I am ready,” you smile at Iorveth, not being able to decide whether to plaster a stupid grin on your face or already form a kissy mouth, because surely that is his plan, isn’t it?

“Good, because few of you are ready for this.”

You rip your eyes open as sharp cold pain tears through your being and you stare at the dagger shoved to the hilt into your body. The urge to cough overcomes you, but all that leaves your lungs is blood, dripping down your chin with every convulsion of your muscles. You try to draw in air, but only a gurgling sound comes from your throat. The blade gets pulled out of your chest. No longer held up you sink to the soft mossy forest floor.

Desparately you look for Iorveth while blackness encroaches on your vision. His face looks content while he swipes his weapon down with a rag. Behind him two other archers have appeared, emotionlessly watching you writhe in your death throes. He turns toward them, smiling warmly.

“One dh’oine less.”

**Author's Note:**

> Any criticism is welcome, please keep in mind this was meant as a joke between friends.


End file.
